


Falling doesn't feel so bad when I know you've fallen this way too

by Skelettoine



Series: the spaces in between [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Billy Hargrove, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Bottom Steve Harrington, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Idiots in Love, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Steve is messed up and does not deal with his ptsd, Top Billy Hargrove, it gets fluffier as the fic progresses i promise, it's 1am i'm gay i'm drunk and this is all i have to offer, there's gonna be porn later on, there's some light choking involved now, they're all kinds of fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 23:43:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17734916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skelettoine/pseuds/Skelettoine
Summary: Billy is angry more often than he is not.He’s not always sure why, only knows it makes him feel more alive than anything else ever could. Knows the way it makes him feel power, pushes the contrast of the world just that much further. Hawkins might be the end of the world but the roads are long and when the he lets the Camaro drive just the right end of too fast, blasts his music loud enough to feel it vibrate in his bones, he can pretend he’s still in California._Billy hides his secrets in the clench of his fists and Steve holds his behind heavy lids and dark shadows under his eyes. They clash and burn and maybe, come out together as something new





	1. Chapter 1

Billy is angry more often than he is not.

He’s not always sure why, only knows it makes him feel more alive than anything else ever could. Knows the way it makes him feel power, pushes the contrast of the world just that much further. Hawkins might be the end of the world but the roads are long and when he lets the Camaro drive just the right end of too fast, blasts his music loud enough to feel it vibrate in his bones, he can pretend he’s still in California. Everthing seems more muted here, even the people. Teenage girls who do everthing they can to not become their mothers and mothers that wish almost as desperately as him to escape from this dead end patch of earth.

They might have an entire house now, rural Indiana offering its wide wood covered planes to them, but Billy still feels more claustrophobic than he ever did in their crammed apartment in California, surrounded by high buildings and higher dreams. The sand used to stretch endlessly, the look from the beach promising a future that might be worth something.

Hawkins is a place people get stuck in. The small town aesthetic absorbing dreams like quicksand and assuring a safety that’s actually just a slower death.

Billy still gets by fine, gets enough alcohol to make life fly by in a haze; so what if his ribs still ache from the punch Neil packs? As long as he spins the story right, fights just as dirty, he’s still dangerous enough to make weak people like Tommy follow him with wagging tails and the feeling they finally found someone real, someone alive enough to wake them, too.

And even though he has all this, has girls staring at him like starving sharks, it’s Harrington his gaze keeps getting caught on.

Boys have become a sensitive matter ever since having moved to oh so holy Hawkins. Billy still keeps appreciating, only, he know how to be subtle, knows how to keep up his bravado and busy himself with the girls this place has to offer. But when he feels Harrington's - _Steve’s_ \- gaze linger on him, in the halls, at basketball practice, a random party he didn’t have to be invited to, he feels an edge returning to his movement. Harrington’s never anything other than analytical regarding him and it only makes Billy want to push his boundaries even more. For power is something Billy understands and the kind Steve carries around himself like an amour is far beyond the years of their peers.

It’s easy, taking his place. Harrington is so caught up in getting dumped by the Wheeler girl, he barely seems to notice; something that grates on Billy more than it should.

-

When Billy wakes up with a brain swimming in drugs and blood on his knuckles, he knows he’s fucked up.

Getting himself back up and unsteadily stumbling past walls covered in cryptic shit he doesn’t even begin to have the nerve for, he let’s himself fall into the drivers seat of the Camaro, eyelids heavy and mind racing with all the possible outcomes where Hawkins PD will find his corpse in a ditch.

He was only supposed to bring Max back home, stupid brat that never just does what she’s told, doesn’t she know that’s what you do, if you don’t want to get hurt? But of course she never gets hurt, because Billy’s the one all wrong, all fucked up.

He only hears the motor of the car start like it’s not him operating the pedal, lets himself drive him to the quarry, staring at the water and pretending it’s as endless as back home.

-

Harrington shows up at school after two missed days, beat up face worn like a battlefield where glory took place. People are fast to make the connection to Billie’s busted lip and bruised eye, but for the first time since they’ve shared the same ground Steve and Billy seem to agree on something. Each of them spin their tales, satisfy the crowd, but when their eyes meet across the hallway something feels shifted.

It takes four days for Billy to find a window where he can drag Harrington into an empty classroom, full of questions and knowing the exact tone in which he’s going to demand an answer for them. But once they’re alone and Steve looks at him with that damn empty look in his eyes, Billy's words get stuck in his throat, leaving a gasping fish lost on land. Only when Harrington adverts his gaze, crosses arms like there’s something inside of him that needs protection, he finds his voice again.

‘What the fuck, Harrington?’

Steve looks up at him, dark shadows under his eyes more prominent now that he squints at him. ‘You’re the one who dragged me in here. Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?’

‘You know damn well what i mean’

Crossed arms gain even more tension, Harringtons body shifting uncomfortable. ‘Listen, just forget about it. I know none of this makes sense, but’ and at this his eyes check for whatever he thinks is out the windows, ‘just leave it be’ And before Billy gets to grab him again, he’s out the door.

-

When his cheek explodes into pain, Billy decides he has more important matters to take care of than finding out why his step sister had enough narcotics to knock him off his feet.

‘There’s no respect in you’, Neil spits into his face ‘no loyalty. Just as fucking useless as your mother.’ Billy remembers his mother in soft light and the feeling of the pendant under his shirt. He can’t decide if he wants to curse her for leaving him or wish that she’d taken him with her.

-

There are nails digging into his back and a soft pliant body between him and the wall. It’s one of Carols parties, that have enough alcohol to drown in and escalate before midnight. The music is trash, but it’s loud enough to pound the thoughts out of his head and even though it’s the same fucking people as every time, this feels like an okay night to loose his memory of.

It’s only when he makes his way through sweaty bodies and a slippery floor to get outside for a smoke that he sees Harrington for the first time that evening. He’s sitting just where the patio ends, back leaned against hard wood, one hand tangled in the grass under him, the other loosely holding a cigarette, his eyes steadily turned towards the woods. He looks so out of it, he somehow seems even more alert than usually. Billy hasn’t been around for King Steve’s reign. But even he has noticed a distinct change within Harrington. It isn’t necessarily the way he doesn’t take part in parties or keeps to himself during school, but rather in the flinch that lives under his skin, that comes to life every time he gets a friendly pat on the back or showers fast enough after practice to be done before any of them or seems to always be looking out for something no one else seems to see.

When Billy sits next to him, he knows Steve notices him, but doesn’t grant him much attention, other than a glance in his direction. They sit there in silence for a while, smoking in something one might almost call companionship.

‘The woods will eat anything’ Harrington says after a while. It’s not quite a whisper; more like a silent confession.

‘You’re fucking wasted, Harrington.’ Billy lets smoke smoothly escape his throat, looking at the yawning darkeness between the trees. Steves elbow shifts against his knee as he turns to look up at Billy and his breath stutters for just moment, caught by brown doe eyes that bore into his.

‘Doesn’t make it any less true’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been ages since i've written my last fanfiction but these two have had a strong enough grip on me since season two aired to get me back into it (also i have no beta so pls point out any mistakes so i don't embaress myself even further)  
> comments and kudos are always appreciated!!


	2. Chapter 2

Steve loses things so much, life feels like sand running through his fingers.

His parents flicker in and out of his life, like the Byers’ Christmas lights, his house yawning wide and empty; when shit hits the fan again, Nancy and Jonathan somehow fall into each other in a way Steve knows he and Nancy never could. They’re still in his life, but they feel miles away, so comfortable in each other, Steve knows he’s the wrong puzzle piece in this picture.

Nowadays he doesn't have much more to lose than sleep. Night hours drop around him like flies and whenever he manages to catch a few hours in unconcious oblivion, he wakes, sweat cooling on his skin, tense body upright and motionless in his bed, listening to teeth covered petals scratching along the window glass.

Mostly he sits by the pool at night, baseball bat tight in his hands, staring at the water that marks the place where this whole nightmare started. He sees the woods from there too, looks out with red rimmed eyes and a body thrumming with unstable electricity.

-

Steve fights demodogs, swings his bat, feels something that’s not quite flesh and bones crunch under his hits. He takes care of a bunch of kids with a deathwish, almost dies in a tunnel and prevents the untimely death of all living existence; ironically, it’s Billy fucking Hargrove who smashes his face in, angel boy, with a wrath in the tight clench of his fists that would rival Lucifers.

There’s a pull between them, something that has them orbiting each other, until the inevitable crash. Steve feels it the first time when he sees Billy walk the halls, tight jeans, broad shoulders and a sharp smile. Sees it, when he stands in front of him at the Halloween party, with his chest bare and covered in beer. Knows it, after Basketball practice, sore from shoulders rammed into his torso and Nancy’s silence at the important questions. Billy grins at him easily under the showers and calls him pretty boy, the clap on his shoulder tingling hours after.

The thing is, Billy’s seen right through him from the start, seen that all his status and bravado are just held upright through acting, knows Steve could never hold his own during a real fight. Has somehow figured him out before even talking to him, ruthlessness simmering beneath his skin and a cruelty that is new to Steve dancing in his eyes.

-

The days after, when they’re licking their wounds and try to make sense of the horrors that keep replaying when they close their eyes, Steve wants to be dead to the world. Instead, he helps Dustin spin the right tales for his Mom, asks Joyce for the easiest way to conceal bruises with makeup and gives Jonathan his blessings. It’s a painful, tight lipped thing, Jonathan a nervous squirrel while Steve is trying to act like losing Nancy is just another punch he has to roll with.

Steve knows he has to sleep at some point, but he’ll be damned, if he doesn’t push that point as far away as possible, doesn’t allow himself to rest long enough for fatigue to crawl all the way into his body, exists in the liminal space between absolute exhaustion and neverending restless energy.

When he comes back to school, he doesn’t use the concealer Joyce so kindly pressed into his hand, holds his head high and only falters a second when he sees Billy with way more bruises than he can remember giving him.

-

Avoiding Billy while running on nothing but coffein and paranoia proves to be even more exhausting than anticipated, so it’s almost a relief when Billys hand wraps around his elbow and drags him into the next empty room. Steve sees questions brimming to be let out and he just feels tired. They’ve been given fake stories, tales spun to please the crowd, but Billy can read him as clear as any book and Steve knows it would be pointless to feed him the bullshit they tell everyone else. So he just looks at him, waits for threats and the typical aggression accompanying their every clashing, but when it comes down to it, Billy himself seems out of breath.

There’s scratching in the back of Steves head and he adverts his gaze, crosses his arms and hopes it doesn’t look as much like he’s holding onto himself as he is.

When Billy _does_ ask, the scratching turns from his head to the outside and Steve doesn’t know if he should pay more or less attention to petal shadows outside the window. It’s no wonder Billy looks at him like he’s lost his mind when he tells him to just forget about the whole thing, but Steve feels like he himself has become so much shadow, it’s easy to slip out.

-

Steve doesn’t know why he’s here, only knows it’s too warm in his room (it hates the heat, lives in the cold) and silence invites sounds that do not belong in his house. So when he hears about Carols party, he decides on a whim to try giving King Steve another shot, makes up his hair and puts on his demeanor from before he knew monsters lurked in the trees.

He’s confident, pats backs, drinks too much and hopes if he dances to music loud enough, it might quiet the noise in his head. But it’s no use because King Steve is dead (long live the King) but the other Steve, Nancy’s Steve, died that night in the tunnels too, so this feels like navigating a shell that’s not quite sure what it’s filled with.

What Steve has forgotten: he doesn’t really like crowds like this, does even less now, that hypersensitivity marks his every waking moment. It’s not like the alcohol is not working, like the music isn’t loud enough; it’s only that Steve feels out of sync with absolutely everything and everyone and here, where writhing bodies share one rhythm, it’s more clear to him than ever before.

Steve decides he needs a smoke.

-

He isn’t even surprised when Billy sits next to him; doesn’t feel threatened either, because the sky is clear and air is cold and the moon illuminates the woods enough to make them less like a black vortext and more like something that shows its teeth readily. Steve finds, he prefers things that are open about their monstrosity. His eyes flick up to Billy and he hears himself say ‘The woods will eat anything.’ He doesn’t know why he confesses this to him, only that he should know. Should be prepared. His head is dizzy and images of Billy lying on the vine covered forest ground with a ripped out throat push themselves in front of his vision, so he has to turn and look at the real thing. Billy’s hair is a glorious sweaty mess, gold locks framing his young face with too old eyes something etheral.

‘You’re fucking wasted, Harrington’ Billy huffs, eyes cast down as he takes another drag of his cigarette, because that was a fucking weird thing to say. But Steve needs him to understand, needs to make this clear to him, so he waits until he catches his look again, is sure he has his attention as he says: ‘Doesn’t make it any less true.’

Billy holds his gaze intently, looks at him like he begins to understand, only to shakingly blow out another breath of smoke to say ‘Whatever, man’

They stay like this, until the cold creeps under their clothes. Billy stands up, brushes off any dust that’s settled on his backside. Steve feels his eyes on him while he's staring into the woods again, limbs feeling frozen in place, until he sees Billy extent a hand out of the corner of his eye. This time Billy doesn’t push him back down, hauls him up with so much force they share breaths for a moment, as Steve begins to find his footing, warmth pooling in the space between them, Billy’s hand solid in his.

They stay only a second longer than they should, both backing away awkwardly, Steve drawing up his shoulders, turns his head and tells no one in particular ‘Think I’m gonna head home now. Party’s fucking lame anyway.’ Still, he waits til Billy shrugs his shoulders and heads back inside. ‘Don’t get lost on the way back, princess’

Steve stays on the porch, keeping his back to the woods, just because he can, until the phantom feeling of slimy tendrils creeping up his neck becomes too much.

-

They’re behind the gym, the next time they find each other, Billy just looking for a discreet place where he can check the bandages around his cracked ribs, when he falters as he turns into the small alleyway that seperates the main building.

Steve doesn’t startle, but Billy knows that posture, knows the way a body tenses before making the decision between fight or flight. Oddly enough, it doesn’t seem like he’s the thing Steve prepared to fight (or run from. these days he seems so on edge it’s a wonder he doesn’t jump right out of his skin at every noise). As soon as he realizes it’s Billy, his back relaxes into the wall, putting out the cigarette he was smoking against muddy red brick. His gaze moves lazily up and down Billy’s body, settling on his face.

It is altogether uncanny, how Steve doesn’t seem fazed by his presence, no fear, no signs of a grudge held for the guy who almost beat him to death. Billy is not sure how to handle that, this complete absence of emotion Steve lets on about him, except for little moments when something in his face shifts, the expression in his eyes changing into something more complicated, almost painful; almost heartbroken.

‘We gotta stop meeting like this’, Billy says, grin wide and languid, before getting out a cigarette, halting a second before he shakes out another one, offering it to Steve. He looks at the cigarette, back up at Billy’s face, considering, careful, before accepting.

‘Can’t get enough of me Harrington, huh?’ Billy lights his cigarette first, before handing the lighter over to Steve, because this is still his game they’re playing.

‘Got enough of you on my face to last for weeks, Hargrove’, Steve says, face angled, deep brown eyes steadily meeting his under dark lashes. Billy swallows, hard, thinking about the implications of that. He inhales smooth smoke, smothering the rippling surface and when he breathes out, ready to be all polished edges again, Harrington speaks once more, louder this time, with a little bit of a fire dancing behind his eyes.

‘That said, didn’t take you too long to wear someone else. I’m hurt.’ Billy blinks, slow and confused for a moment, before Steve gestures towards his face. ‘I might not remember all that much, but i’m not so far up my own ass to think all that was me.’

It takes Billy a split second less to collect himself after that, familiar smugness straightening out the waves crashing inside of him, says ‘What can I say? I don’t do monogamy’ like there isn’t a war of rage and shame battling in the pit of his gut.

Steve just hums at that, watches Billy intently as they lean against opposite walls. They’re so close, if Billy moves his feet just a bit, he’d be touching Steves; thinks about how he’d only have to reach out an arm and have the other boy under him. As way too often with Billy’s impulses, he only realizes he’s followed them a moment too late, his hand laying around Harringtons neck, not really squeezing, only resting, for the time being. Billy marvels at how perfect his hand lays in the concave of Steves’ collarbone, how his fingers wrap around his elegant neck, pulse strong under his touch.

When he looks up, he sees Steve holding his stare unwaveringly, bring his hand up to take another drag of his cigarette, exhaling the smoke right into Billy’s face, before angling his head up, exposing flawless cream skin without hesitation. And really, that’s all the permission Billy needs, leaning into Steves’ space, pressing down at his windpipe, bodies flush together. Steve exhales shakingly, a shudder running through his body, eyes heavy and always, always fixated on Billy’s face. Their laboured breaths mingle, hot and humid, a ghost of a touch. Billy wants and wants and wants and when he feels Steves tongue dart out to lick over his bottom lip he _takes_. It’s more teeth and tongue than anything really, bone deep desire and roaring storms and it’s heaven and hell and _delicious._

It takes Billy way too long to break away, step back hastily as if he’s been burned and they’re left heaving and staring. Steve’s lips are swollen, shining wet from saliva, face blotchy and red as blood streams through his neck evenly again.

Billy looks down at the gleaming cigarette he let fall to the ground, stomps it out and leaves without another look at Steve because he doesn’t know what else he’s going to do otherwhise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there might me a small chance i underestimated this story bc lmao no way i'm gonna fit the rest of it in one chapter so let's just see where this goes


	3. Chapter 3

When Steve gets home, the first thing he does is crumble in the kitchen and hyperventilate on the floor for half an hour. Somehow breathing seems way harder in his wide empty house than with Billy Hargroves hand around his throat.

He pulls his knees to his chest and buries his hands in his hair, starring unfocused on the floor while the world is reduced to his too loud breathing. Trying to recollect your memories when most of what happened is stored in his brain as touches and gasps proves almost impossible, while he’s also trying not to choke on his own breathing. With a harsh exhale, he closes his eyes and lets it all happen again, tries to decipher himself in a situation so absolute alien to him.

When Billy kissed him, it was more animal devouring than anything Steve could call human; it should not have felt like intimacy, but he’s still shaking from the closeness. Can’t quite remember what, if anything, went through his head when he bared his neck, submission given readily, but not eager. He only remembers _wanting_ , remembers a need pulsing steadily inside his always fluttering chest. It felt solid, even as his vision started swimming, dark blotches at the edges as Steve’s world was reduced to only _Billy_.

Steve opens his eyes, reguarated feelings sitting heavily in his sternum. He’s staring at the blank cabinet in front of him and sees Billies eyes looking - really looking - at him, asking him permission and Steve feels seen. He felt calm, being pinned down, a storm in a fist. Managable. _Held_.

Giving himself over like that, in the hands that showed him such violence _(but also a solid grip in a night full of illuminated trees, clouded breath mixing),_ Steve felt safe. He shudders at the thought, winds his arms tightly around his knees and slowly lets his head fall back against the wall.

-

Billy likes watching Steve. Not specifically because it’s Steve but because he seems like the only thing worth noticing in this forsaken town.

For all the ways Steve is above taking too much notice of the power struggles of Hawkins High, there are moments Billy sees right through his carefully crafted composure. The moments where he thinks he understands there is way more to Steve Harrington than he would ever let you believe.

There’s a darkness lurking right behind Steves eyes; it shows when he’s staring unfocused inside his open locker, hand gripping the door so hard his fingertips turn white. Shows in the way Steve is much more aware of his surroundings than he lets on, flitting along the edges smoothly enough to not draw attention to himself and navigates every friendly conversation with such precision, Billy has to begrudgingly admit he’s impressed.

But his favorite moments, the most intimate ones, are when he sees a second of vunerability. When there’s a movement too jerkingly, the jarring sound of a locker slamming shut too strong, the creaking noise of a branch carrying through an open window; Steve barely flinches, body tense but steady, save for an almost unnoticeable turn of his head, deer eyes wide and something like fear shimmering in them.

He carries shadows under his eyes, tension curling his shoulders ever so slightly. He’s still friends with Wheeler and Byers, which, really, seems kind of morbid to Billy, given the circumstances. They’re all laughs and gentle touches, a natural intimacy surrounding them. Billy sees Steve stand by and sometimes when he hears his laugh it sounds just a little like someone’s strangling him.

-

He phantom feels his finger wrapping around Steve’s neck when his father grips his and pushes him against the shelf. He’s drunk and Billy really should have known better than to flippantly tell him he’s going out with some friends.

He gets a split lip for his loose tongue, his father spitting the word ‘faggot’ at him, like it still means anything anymore.

-

When he gets to school the day after the incident behind the gym, Harrington doesn’t show up in class, nor does he at Basketball practice the next day and if Billy is just a little bit relieved about that, that’s his business.

There’s such wrath in him at times it feels like he could consume the whole world and it still wouldn’t be enough. Destruction lives in his hands and haunts his head. It’s not like he can forget either, feels it reminding him with the sting of his lip when he talks and the burn in his ribs when he moves wrong. His mistakes are all out to see if anyone took the time to look.

Steve has gotten a better look than anyone else in Hawkins. The picture of him with Billys hand squeezing his throat, plumb lips opened slightly, evidence of Billys fists still visible on his face haunts him. The impulsive need to break things eats away at him, has him bursting out in fits of rage that burn everything around him. But that was the first time someone _let_ him. Invited him, even.

It doesn’t feel like people ever see more than his fury, smooth danger with so much energy it’s overflowing. They shouldn’t either, Billy makes sure of that. But when Steve looked at him behind the gym, breath laboured and lids heavy, his eyes still seemed to bore right through him, look at the ugliness inside and have no intention of looking away.

-

Thing is, Steve is soft, but not in the fragile way. That’s always aggrivated him, ever since he first started to get a sense for him. Billy knows how to be grounded in himself, watched Harrington drift along on too light feet, tearing himself apart with uncertainty.

Billy doesn’t remember most of what happened that night in early November, has no idea what on earth could have such an impact on bright, naive Steve, but something in him has fundamentally changed. Lightness exchanged for heavy eyes and feet planted like he’s scared to be uprooted every second.

Billy doesn’t quite know how to feel about that. It’s not like Steve isn’t _Steve_ anymore; he still wears those horrible polo shirts and the floofy hair, still has the winning smile that makes the girls lean against their lockers and curl their hair around their fingers. Only now the act seems more like an act than before, crumbling at the edges and revealing a much harsher picture underneath. A kind of resilience that keeps his back straight and head high, a pull around his mouth when he’s leaning against his BMW on the school parking lot, cigarette held loosely between still bruised knuckles. Steve has somehow become more frail and unyielding at the same time.

It used to be so easy to rile him up, a solid picture Billy knew exactly how to unsettle, to grab tightly at the edges and shake as hard as he could, just because he was curious to see what would fall out. It wasn’t just because Steve was at the top of the foodchain, or pretty - oh so pretty - even though that was what started it. Rather it was Billy looking to see how close he could get before Steve would push back. Cause even back then Billy could see the leash Wheeler had on him, how Steve wanted to be good so bad that Billy just couldn’t resist to take that from him.

Now Steves once solid form has become like fog and Billy is struggling to get a clear hold of him; every time he thinks he’s got him figured out, he shifts into something different. Billy knows how to move around someone who’s always shifting personalities on a whim around him, lives with the consequences on his skin. Knows how to walk on eggshells if necessary, how to be careful and wait to find out what version you get.

Billy doesn’t want to be careful with Steve.

-

The smooth chilly breezes of November turn into biting cold way faster than Billy is prepared for. It claws at his skin and leaves his face numb, but he’ll be damned if he lets this rotten place rob him of his style. Denim and wide open shirts might not keep out the cold, but they sure as hell keep his back straight and walk confident. It’s one of the last things that he’s managed to hold onto from California, something that feels familiar, makes him feel just rugged enough to resemble safety.

It’s been 4 days since he’s seen Harrington last, so it’s like he’s awake for the first time in days when he’s leaning against a locker, chatting up a pretty girl and catches sight of soft brown hair and the darkest eye bags he’s ever seen. He knows he should carry on with the conversation, end it smoothly and stride away like the king he is, but something in him tugs him so violently towards Steve that he barely throws a ‘gotta go’ to the girl in front of him and jogs after him. He surprises Steve at his locker, and if he’s not imagining it, Steve actually jumps a bit when he notices Billy stand next to him. Billys mouth spreads into a wide grin.

‘Tired, Harrington?’, he asks, as he leans against the locker next to Steves, mirror position to the one he pulled on the girl just seconds ago.

Steve regards him with eyes so dead it scares Billy for a moment. There’s a tension in the air he didn’t intend to let into this situation, held up entirely by the distance between their bodies. When his look flicks down to Steve’s neck Steve cocks his head, a ghost of mischief on his lips.

‘Just feeling wrung out. You know how it is.’ Billy swallows, takes a short look around and steps into Harringtons space, body heat pooling between them. They’re almost the same height, Steve just slightly taller, but slumped against the door of his locker Billy can easily tower over him, leans an arm high against the cool metal for good measure. He’s met with the same brown eyes, always, always holding his stare unwavering, just observing him. He can’t quite decide if it irritates or excites him.

‘Yeah, I bet’, he says casually. ‘You know, a nap under the bleachers always has me feeling refreshed.’

It takes Steve only a split moment to understand the implication, another one to consider it and then rights his position. Their eyes are level now and Billy briefly wonders if he pushed too far, but Steve just shrugs a shoulder, says ‘I’ll try catch some sleep there after forth period then, I guess’ while closing his locker so Billy has to step away, rearranges his grip on his books and walks away.

-

Steve is not quite sure what made him agree to meet Billy Hargrove under the fucking bleachers.

It’s third period and he doesn’t hear a word his english teacher says, while he absent mindedly taps his pen against a page filled with more doodles than words. One of them resembles a flower shape and Steve stills for a moment, memories flashing of shining teeth, shrill screeching and panicked voices of the kids echoing in his head. The pen stills and his hands suddenly feel freezing cold.

He tears his eyes from the page and forces himself to look out the window, then around the room, starts tapping his pen again and thinks about wether Billy will put his hand back around his neck again. Steve kind of hopes he does and wonders what the hell is wrong with him.

It’s not like he’s never found a guy attractive, but he never put any thought in it because there were enough girls he found equally drawn to, so it didn’t mean all that much. This however is new, this pull that had him crashing with Billy, every time escalating more, until it almost killed him. And then it turned into something very different very quickly. Or maybe not so different if Steve thinks more about it, thinks about Billy touching his shoulder in the showers, the dirty looks and always pushing into his personal space.

Maybe this is where they were always headed, only Steve doesn’t know the fucking direction he’s going. With Nancy it was always clear, a steady line to follow, clean cutout futures he could see so close he’d just have to reach out. Until all that went to shit and the world turned upside down again and now he’s struggling to find anything that will grant him steady ground.

He wonders how it would be like to be fucked by Billy, how rough he really is in bed, how he’d hold Steve down - would he take care of Steve or only care for his own pleasure? He can’t decide what he’d prefer.

Some nights, when he manages to get some sleep, he dreams of Nancy. They’re still together, his head in her lap while she gently strokes his hair. There’s a warm breeze coming through the open window, soft music in the background while the sun shines warm on them and Steve feels whole. Nancy leans down to him, whisps of her hair brushing against his cheek and he smiles, feeling her soft lips ghost over his forehead as she whispers ‘You were never good enough.’

Somehow those dreams are worse than the ones about the monsters. When he wakes those nights the loneliness gapes like a wound inside his chest, body aching for someone to hold him tight enough to keep his crumbling pieces together.

He barely realizes he’s stopped tapping his pen and instead started digging his nails into the flesh of his palm hard enough to leave little indentations when he forces his fingers to relax again. He looks at the clock and counts down the minutes to the end of fourth period.

-

Billy is not devoid of patience, but he still hates waiting for the things he wants.

So when he finally digs his hands into Steves hip bones, mouthing at his neck, the bites he places there are a little harder than he wanted to dare allow himself. Steve’s so into it though, he doubts he even notices it, licks over the bruises afterwards, not as an apology but rather to seal them as a mark he left there.

Steve has his eyes closed, neck bared like the day behind they gym, but now he’s is writhing with grass under his back instead of brick, lets his hands roam into Billy’s wide open shirt, stroking along his chest and when Billy hisses as Steve presses against the bruises on his ribs he simply moves his hands to his back, clawing half moons into his skin.

‘This doesn’t mean anything’ he breathes, as Billy moves his sloppy kisses to his lips, slower than last time. There’s less desperation to it now and something in Billy wants to make this last. Their tongues slide against each other, little gasps and moans barely audible over the hard beating of his heart. Steve’s hand is on his chest again, careful to not get too close to the bruises and Billy is sure he must feel the drumming in his ribcage loud and clear.

‘Course it doesn’t’ he says and bites Steves lip. Steve’s so fucking responsive though, aching into every touch like a starving man and Billy feels holy and sacrilegious at the same time as he pushed Steves shirt up. He wants to tear Steve apart and sow him together carefully afterwards, tear him apart again, wants to melt together with him and consume him. He feels Steve hook one leg around his, the other high against his side, allowing Billy between them to press their bodies flush together.

He feels Steve shudder under him as he strokes along white smooth skin, lets his hand briefly wander over a taunt stomach. When he barely brushes his thumbs against Steves nipples, he hears the breath get caught in his pretty displayed throat and follows the animal instinct in him to dig his teeth back into it. Meanwhile his hands decidedly move down low again, digging hard into Steves hips as he grinds down.

They don’t have time for much, but they find their rhythm soon enough, Billy burying his heavy breathing in the crook of Steves neck, while Steve whines under the hand Billy has pressed over his mouth after quickly discovering Steve is _not_ quiet during sex. His other hand is still keeping Steve pinned down by the hips, grinding deep and languid against the hard length he feels pressed against his own.

‘Fuck yeah, princess’, he groans against Steve’s skin and it feels like his whole body is burning up, electricity building between them, sweet friction edging on too much and not enough and Billy knows he’s close like he feels Steve meet his hips more frantic with every thrust and decides he does not want to spend the rest of the day with jizz in his pants. He halts his movements, to Steve’s great dismay. He’s glaring at him, which really, is even less effective with Billy’s hand pressed against his mouth.

‘I’m gonna take my hand away and then you better be fucking quiet’ he growls, trying to keep his voice as controlled as possible. Steve is still glaring, but nods and doesn’t break eye contact as Billys hand disappears from his mouth and quickly gets to work on opening both their pants and when he takes their dicks between his hand, Billy swears Steve is using every ounce of self control to not throw his head back and moan like a whore. Instead he keeps his eyes locked with Billys, eyebrows knitted together and teeth digging into his bottom lip to keep him from making any noise. Billy decides he wants his own teeth there, surges in for a kiss that swallows any sound from Steves throat.

Billys hand is back around Steves throat as he spills between them and he feels the sinew convulse under his fingers with the orgasm that has Steve open mouthed, reduced to hot breath. What he’s not prepared for, however, is Steve’s doe eyes looking up at him, all glassy and fucked out, swollen lips whispering ‘come for me.’

And he does, because whatever power he has over Steve, he knows is granted to him freely and that somehow gives Steve as much control over him as he has.

They’re panting into each others mouths afterwards, Steve wiping the cum from his stomach and smears it on the grass under him, for the first time avoiding Billys eyes, so Billy ducks down and licks up what's left of them off Steve’s skin. He feels Steve squirm under his tongue at first, before he relaxes into it; when Billy eventually feels soft fingers carding through his hair he looks up, startled by the tenderness of the touch. Steves fingers slide under his chin, pull him into a deep kiss, swallowing their combined taste. For a moment they’re the only people in the world.

-

It’s night and Billy drives the Camaro through abandoned roads, hands gripping the wheel hard while metal plays so loud he doesn’t hear himself scream. He’s unharmed tonight but on the run anyway. It’s not like anything special happened either, but when he sits in his room and hears Neil and Susan laugh with Max, something snaps in him and the next thing he remembers is climbing out the window with the knowledge he’d rather be anywhere else but here.

Night is endless in Hawkins, barely any road lights this close to the edge. Billy makes the split decision to just drive until he runs out of gas, get out of here, away from Neil, from the suffocating claustrophobia haunting this place. He gets about two miles beyond the borders of Hawkins before he swears again, punches the steering wheel with so much force he feels it all the way through his arm and turns back.

He ends up at the next payphone station along the road, fishes out the note with Steve’s phone number he slipped into the pocket of his jacket during their short tryst under the bleachers. He scratches together enough coin for the phone and if Steve sounds just a little too awake for 1am on a Wednesday night, he doesn’t mention it.

‘I need a place to crash tonight.’

After a short silence ‘You know you can just say you wanna come over, right?’

‘I don’t. I mean, I do. This isn’t about that. I just can’t go home tonight.’

Billy could kiss Steve for not asking any more questions and just telling him how to get to his place, but when he actually gets there, sees Steve’s parents catalogue cut-out house and awkwardly stands in their too clean kitchen, it feels like he’s forgotten how to move in his own skin. He throws on his overly confident demeanour, leaning forward with his crossed arms laying on the counter in a way he knows makes his ass look great; but somehow it doesn’t feel right tonight. Like he’s just a little too raw on the inside to keep up this persona he’s crafted so carefully.

Maybe it's Steve. Maybe it’s him making black tea for them, real tea, not the one that comes in neat little bags, but actually puts the dried herbs in little silver eggs that cling when he puts them in the mugs. ‘Tastes way better than that convenience store shit’ he tries to justify before realising he doesn’t have to. Maybe it’s his dishevelled hair, or soft pajama pants or the way even though he lives here, he doesn’t seem like he belongs here, arms wound tightly around his middle.

‘You can sleep in one of the guest rooms, if you want. Or my couch. Or the bed, i don’t mind.’ He’s nervous and somehow that helps ground Billy. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other before he says: ‘This really isn’t about me trying anything. I just need a place to crash.’

Steve bites his lip, looks away for a moment; he always does when he needs to reassure himself, but his voice is even, the usual mischief in it, like he knows something Billy doesn’t. ‘Yeah, you mentioned.’ The timer for the tea beeps and Steve turns around to put the mushy rest of the herbs in the trash bin and with his back still turned to him he notes: ‘Look, you don’t have to tell me anything. But you can if you want to.’ And for one, insane second Billy actually wants to. About the beatings and the disgust his father spits in his face and how he’s never wanted to move here in the first place and doesn’t even know if his mother is still alive, because Neil has made a point of completely erasing her from their lifes. How he’s found a new family and Billy has no place in it.

He’s about to tell Steve it’s none of his business, when Steve turns around and the harshness shows behind his soft eyes as he places the tea mug in front of Billy. ‘I don’t really care what you’re up to. So it doesn’t matter either way.’

And Billy thinks he actually doesn’t. Steve doesn’t care about him, because he’s the person who threatens children and he’s the one who pushed him back down at basketball practice and he’s the one who smashed in his face. Steve has no reason to care for him, but something made him let Billy into his house in the middle of the night and that means something, too.

They drink their tea in silence for a few minutes, Steve patiently waiting for whatever reaction Billy is still deciding on. Finally, setting his mug down and looking straight into Steve’s eyes, Billy states a simple truth.

‘My father hates me.’

There’s an array of emotions flitting across Steves face too fast for Billy to decipher, but when he looks back into his mug, Steve, impossibly, takes and gives back in equal honesty.

‘My parents don’t care that I exist.’

Somehow that makes him feel safer than any reassurance could have.

-

They don’t sleep that night, stay up sitting at the side of the illuminated pool and trade careful truths. When the sun rises, Billy feels calmer than he has ever since he first stepped foot in Hawkins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this turned out way longer than expected but i hope you enjoy the angsty horny boys


	4. Chapter 4

Billy slips out of Steve’s porch at the first whisp of dusk. He hasn’t asked that night; not about the nail covered bat next to Steves bedside drawer or the fully turned up heater or why all the life in his house seems to be compressed into his bedroom. Not about how Steve didn’t seem to plan to sleep that night, even before he turned up or why he lets Billy stay through all of it, without them doing anything at all. He doesn’t ask then, but they both know he will eventually.

Billy climbs back into his room through the still open window and as he lies in his bed to await the moment his alarm rings, he thinks about how things will be different now; because Billy Hargroves does not show weakness, does not open up about his stupid feelings. But he did, he sat with Steve and they never said anything directly but there is enough laid bare between them to make Billy clench his fists in regret. _There are consequences to your actions._

He feels his fingernails digging into the skin of his palm and thinks about Harrington and his stupid floppy hair and his ugly polo shirts and his dumb doe eyes and that he now knows how his face looks when he cums but also how he moves around his kitchen to make tea in his pajama pants. He thinks about all the little things he observes and carefully stores away in his memory and still finds himself hungry for more; the only problem is, it can’t be helped that Steve learns things about him in return and that fills Billy with a kind of fury he knows is way too close to fear.

Steve has this effect on him, that has him wanting to spill all his secrets out to him and somehow that makes him way more dangerous than any punch his father could ever pack. There’s a conflict inside of him, between his desperate need to share everything with Steve, to hold him close and love him tenderly and his experience of knowing nothing good has ever come out of letting his feeling unguarded.

-

The next few days Billy goes out of his way to avoid Steve. What they did last night was way too close to bonding and Billy doesn’t do relationships. Apart from that, Steve himself made it clear that he doesn’t care about him. They’re just two horny teenage boys that happen to be attracted to each other, no feelings attached. It’s only that it never was just that with Steve, because from the very first day they met everything somehow becomes more complicated as soon as Steve is involved and the lines blur so easily. This nameless thing between them always explodes, twists and changes so fast and uncontrollable, it’s hard to catch up and impossible to pull away, even though the intensity of it is burning him.

So Billy doesn’t look at Steve in the corridors, sits on the other end of the cafeteria and stubbornly focuses on the teacher during the classes they share. Thinks that maybe, if he keeps his distance, he can put things between them back into neat little boxes and just have sexy make-out sessions that mean nothing beyond the physical.

Steve seems just fine with that, wrapped up in his own little world of spending his free time with his ex and her new boyfriend and playing babysitter. Sometimes, when Steve stands with Nancy at her locker Billy will walk deliberatly close, checking Steve with his shoulder and their eyes stay on each other a moment longer than it takes Wheeler to call him an asshole. They drag each other into empty class rooms, clawing at clothes, give quick handjobs in crammed closets and share heated kisses in the empty showers. It’s always hurried, heavy breathing and barely any words shared between them, both going their own ways after they’re done.

Some rare times, they go slow though; like once when everyone but them has already left after practice and Billy has Steve on his knees, pretty mouth wrapped around him, hands digging in the sides of his thighs and he’s clumsy but so eager. When Billy pulls at his hair, hard, he groans around him, sweet vibrations sending waves of pleasure through Billys body. In the end it isn’t that what pushes him over the edge but Steve looking up at him, locking eyes and the intensity - no, _intimacy_ \- of it has Billys knees shaking as he comes down his throat and he tries not to think about the implications of that afterwards.

Billy hates himself for it, but through everything he tells himself, it’s hard _not_ to still see Steve in more ways, to not notice a new thing about him every day. The shadows under his eyes never cease but some days it’s almost like some of that old royalty returns to his stride, spine straight and head held high; most of the time he just looks tired. But it’s the way he holds his head a little to the side when he’s really listening to someone, the fidgeting of his hands when the halls get too loud, how he sometimes looks so sad it’s like he drowns in it.

On his worst days Steve looks so frayed at the edges, it feels as if he could just disappear, should Billy lose focus of him and those are the days his hand is back around Steves throat, when they’re rough and desperate, all tongue and teeth and hands eager to make sure they’re still there. At times Steve’s exhaustion is so palpable, his movements uncoordinated and weak but at the same time so, so needy. Billy loves it when Steve is so raw under him, like their skin somehow feels closer when they press against each other and the hazy look Steve gives Billy after they’re done makes him kiss him so hard there’s an iron taste shared between their tongues.

Those are the days Billy stays with Steve, spents all that’s left of the day sharing his bed and smoking together in his room. They talk, more easily than both of them could ever have expected; talk about music and basketball and cars. They bicker and dick around but it’s different to before, no malice behind it. It’s like remembering a language you used to be fluent in but forgot over time. It’s not passionate, nothing like the imploding of a star between them; but it’s _nice_ and Billy finds himself craving it.

-

Billy never asks about the bat but when they lay in Steve’s bed two weeks after he first crashes there, he asks: ‘Where’d you go those days after we first kissed?’

When Steve’s eyes don’t look empty, they look haunted. Sometimes he just disappears, the most unassuming things having him stare wide eyed into the emptiness, while he relives horrors unknown to Billy. It’s always kind of scary, like he goes to a place he can’t follow him to. Other times Billy catches him looking at his own hands, around him, like he doesn’t quite know where he is and he looks so lost, so helpless, he feels a painful tug inside his chest.

Billy doesn’t know Steve’s ghosts but he knows what they do to him. They’re always careful about these things, never really get into the details but they give enough for the other to read between the lines. So when Steve doesn’t answer, just turns to him after a moment and kisses him, not hard but not soft either, Billy knows this isn’t him trying to distract him; it’s him trying to give himself more time to find the words to form the right answer.

After a minute, Steves rests his head on Billys chest again, arm looped around his middle, legs tangled, when he says: ‘I was thinking.’

Billy angles his head so he can watch Steve look out the window, drawing circles with his finger over his ribs. The bruises are faded by now, only a dull memory of their original pain left. ‘Thinking about what?’

‘About my life and how I fit inside of it.’ Billy wants to ask what that means, but Steves body comes alive so suddenly he doesn’t get to. It’s like the sentence sits wrong in his body, Steve sitting upright against the bedframe and cossing his arms, fingernails digging hard into his skin. ‘Fuck, no that sounded stupid, i meant- fuck’ He gets up, eyes trained to the floor, a hand fisted in his hair while he paces the room, suddenly brimming with nervous energy. ‘It’s like so much shit happened and it’s so much bigger than me and suddenly something happens to _me_ , you-’ he turns abruptly, pointing at Billy like he’s accusing him of something, ‘ _You_ happen to me and I’m trying to cope ok? I’m trying not to let it all turn to shit, but it already has so i’m really just doing damage control and I keep messing up and I, I-’

Steve’s breathing in panicked gasps now and Billy gets out of the stunned surprise at Steve’s rant, is at his side in a blink. He holds him so tight, Steve feels like he’s being crushed, but Billy’s so firm, so solid, so _real_ , he closes his eyes and just lets him ground him.

‘Shh princess, it’s alright, you’re not messing up. You’re doing so great, just breathe for me, ok?’, Billy’s voice is soft and steady and Steve only realizes how tight he was fisting the fabric of his shirt, when his grip loosens. His breathing starts to even out, body instead switching to a slight trembling and even though he can think again, Steve hides his face in Billys shoulder, his embarrasement running almost deeper than the panic and what the fuck is he doing, letting Billy Hargrove hold him during a fucking anxiety attack?

But Billy only leads them back to the bed, flops down back onto it and lets Steve hide for as long as he needs. Slowly, the trembling, too, recedes and Steve just feels exhausted, feels it settling in the core his bones, weighing him down and he only mumbles a sleepy ‘sorry’ before he goes under, velvet darkness and Billys warmth lulling him in.

‘Nothing to be sorry for, babe,’

-

Steve still wakes up with teeth and talons ripping at his flesh. Sometimes that’s not the point he wakes up at though. Sometimes it just stays like that for a while, clawing and pulling him apart or - the worst of them all - suddenly it’s not him being torn by otherworldly creatures. It’s the kids, it’s Joyce, it’s Nancy. It’s Billy now too, even though he shoves that fact right in the back of his head.

Those nights he doesn’t go out to the pool, locks himself in the bathroom instead, sitting in the tub with the water thrumming against his back so hot, his skin goes numb. He holds the bat tight, pushes it close enough to his body the nails dig into the soft flesh of his shoulder. The bathroom light reflects on the smooth ceramic of the tub and Steve thinks of the shimmer of the moonlight on their dark writhing bodys, so inherently wrong, something that shouldn’t exist in this realm. He closes his eyes, concentrates on the white-hot burn of the water and the punctured pain on his shoulder.

Billy spends progressively more nights in his house as time goes by. Some of them they stay at the pool, when both their heads are too busy to even consider going to bed, but when sleep finds them on others of them, it’s mostly deep and dreamless and that’s really all Steve can hope for these days.

Steve doesn’t scream most of the time when he wakes from a nightmare, more often than not too paralyzed to make a sound other than his panicked breathing. Billy doesn’t always wake up when Steve is pulled out of his dreams, but when he does, he’s sweet with sleepiness, rubs little circles in his back, pulls him back into reality with his soft voice. The times he doesn’t wake, Steve surprisingly finds himself calmed down just by listening to his breathing, lays his head back on his chest to count his heart beats.

He’s pretty sure those are not things casual fuckbuddies do, but there’s a kind of intimacy between them he can’t bring himself to loosen his grip on.

-

The first time they properly sleep with each other isn’t sloppy or angry like Steve expects.

He opens his door for Billy that evening, needs a moment to process the picture in front of him; Billy drenched in rain, faintly shaking in his denim jacket, a nasty cut on his eyebrow dripping blood into his face and by the way he holds his body, it’s obvious he’s in pain.

Billy opens his mouth, like he wants to say something and promptly closes it again, then opens it for another try but no sounds come out. He puts his trembling hands in the pockets of is jacket, only to take them back out a second later and clench them tightly next to his thighs. It’s like his face can’t decide between a defensive anger and vulnerability. Steve doesn’t know what happened, only knows this; Billy is hurt and he’s the one he chose to seek out.

He opens the door wider, reaches out to Billy, slowly, because right now Billy is more scared animal than anything else and he is prone to lashing out as it is; so Steve lets him eye his movements, gives him a moment to decide wether he wants to pull away. When he doesn’t, Steve takes both his hands, feels them clench tighter, then go lax in his own and Billy lets himself be guided into the house without protest. He lets Steve lead him to the bathroom, his whole prescence reading _surrender_ as he lets him undress him from his soaking clothes and doesn’t say a word as Steve draws in a breath at the sight of his bruised torso, black and purple blooming over his sides. He doesn’t react when Steve towel dries his hair, barely twitches when he cleans the cut on his brow with antiseptic, only closes his eyes against the pain.

The cold corridor of the house makes him shiver, but a heavy blink later they’re already in Steve’s bedroom and he gets maneuvered in a cozy sweater and a loose pair of pajama pants. It’s unnerving, seeing him like this. Billy may be unhinged, but there is always his raw energy keeping him upright, has him wielding control over every situation. Now, as Steve pushes against his chest to make him sit on the bed, it’s like he’s retreated so far into himself, he’s barely aware of his surrounding. He sits in front of Steve, bare and unable to make eye contact and Steve thinks _I’m going to kill whoever did this to you._

Billy’s gaze never meets Steves, not unfocused but always looking on the ground or slightly next to him. Steve steps in the space between his legs, cups his jaw and gently brushes a stray look of his hair behind his ear, thumb stroking along his temple. He doesn’t force Billy to look at him, only keeps rubbing tiny circles in his skin; holds him in a way that gives him room to pull back, if needed. The tender touches seem to tentatively bring Billy back into the moment; he leans forward, his forehead meeting Steves chest, hands slowly lifted to his hips and when Steve takes another step closer, Billy wraps his arms tight around Steves middle, the shaking from earlier returning full force. There’s nothing other to do for Steve than to hold him close, fingers threading through his damp hair, mumbling reassuring nothings.

It starts slow, Billy looking up at Steve with something akin to reverence and the first kiss they share feels as fragile as a birds heart beat, his chest so full, it hurts. Steve repositions himself, moves so he sits on Billys lap, knees sinking into the soft matress on either side of him and Billy holds him like something holy.

They take their time, Billy opening Steve up until he’s all soft gasps and shivering legs, covers his face in tender kisses. It’s a quiet thing, the worshipping of each other and when Billy is finally inside of Steve, his throat is tight with emotions and it’s so overwhelmingly intense, Billy might just start crying then and there. He hides his face in the crook of Steves neck, Steve holding him close, making tiny noises as he starts to move in a slow rhythm.

They’re unhurried that night and time loses meaning as each touch becomes an act of devotion. The intensity builds up almost timidly, and when they both come eventually, hands interlaced tightly, it’s like the world stops existing and everything narrows down to their shared breathing and the touch of their foreheads.

-

Maybe Steve isn’t as kind as he used to be. Maybe he never was. He thinks so when he drives Dustin home, his chattering not reaching Steve’s muddy brain. He glances over, sees the passion in the kids eyes and he wonders, how. How is it that this kid, this child is still so himself after everything they went through, after everything they’ve seen. He’s still the blatantly honest, empathetic person he was before, so patient with Steve when he drifts off or snaps harsh word other times, when his senses are too overloaded and every rustling is like sandpaper on his nerves. How is it that the world kept turning for everyone but him?

Sometimes it’s nothing but a sound, light reflected on an unexpected surface, a shift in the air or a shift inside of him and suddenly his pulse is all Steve still hears, blood rushing through his ears. Anxiety crashes in the pit of his stomach and sweeps everything else away until he’s reduced to a trembling bundle of nerves. It goes on for hours, days at a time, all of his senses on high alert, looking out for something that’s not even in this dimension anymore.

 _But what if, what if,_ his mind keeps chipping away at all the possibilities in which they come back, hungry without ever being able to be sated. Steve’s a little like that too, if he thinks about it and the thought startles him. About how he wants and wants and doesn’t even know what exactly it is he wants, what could ever make things okay again. Everything is so beyond repair, Steve can’t even start to imagine a world that would make him feel safe again.

And then there’s Billy, solid and so full of raw energy, he pulls him in like the sun. Steve basks in his warmth and expects it to burn him every second of it. Sometimes it does. Sometimes Billy has a storm raging inside of him, comes to his door with bruises under his clothing and a grip so harsh Steve knows he will be covered in blue and green by the end of the night. They always hold on tight to one another after one of those clashes, laying in each others arms like they actuallly are something, a tenderness that makes Steve feel so comfortable it unnerves him.

Other times it’s Steve with the anger bursting at the seams, anxiety refunneled into rage because it’s the only thing it knows to be without being vulnerable. He leaves scratches down Billy’s back and presses on the places he knows will hurt the most until Billy is hissing with pain. He kisses over them after they’re done, butterfly kisses that have him shudder under him, stroking back his hair, cupping his cheek, letting his thumb run over Steves red kissed lips.

Steve watches the sky fading into faint gray on one of the early mornings they share, sleepless and pressed close to Billy under the warm covers. He likes beholding this, the soft light illuminating Billy’s face, the lines of it smoothed over by sleep. He looks peaceful like that, oblivious to all the horror of the waking world and when Steve feels a tender smile sneak onto his lips he closes his eyes and lays his head back on Billys chest before the panic can set in.

The morning is too early for heavy feelings and all Steve wants is to keep this oblivious warmth a little longer.

-

Steve’s always been good at taking care of others, even though his record at Hawkins High suggests otherwise. He’s good at making others feel comfortable around him, his easy-going temper bringing a natural balance. It used to be what held him together after the first time, after the flickering christmas lights at the Byers house start haunting his dreams, because Nancy was woken by nightmares worse than his own. So when he used to hold her shaking body against his, steady and reassuring, it seemed like the most obvious thing to just push his own horrors in the back of his mind.

He’s always been good at taking care of others; never himself though. He starts smoking too early for his age, hopes his parents will chide him for it; drinks too much and keeps enough company to push the loneliness away for most of the time. But Tommy and Carol are not his people anymore, never really were if he’s being honest and Nancy and Jonathan are so caught up in each other it’s easy to forget him. They don’t mean to, of couse, but it happens anyway and Steve doesn’t blame them for it.

The kids are still around and Steve loves them with every fibre of his being, remembers how it feels to be ready to give his life for them and knows he would do it again. He plays Dungeons and Dragons with them on Friday nights and gives Dustin a ride home whenever he can, chats with his mother and coos at their new cat, but underneath it all there’s still the emptiness gnawing at him, a gaping hole, frayed at the edges and always, always there.

Nancys words at that party still haunt him, make him question the worst of everything he ever did and maybe she was right, maybe it was all bullshit, maybe he was just as pathetic as he felt when he realized there was nothing left for him to do other than let her go. He always kind of knew that he wouldn’t be enough for her; by now all their times together, all their plans for the future feel like a distant dream. He couldn’t quite catch it again even if he tried and somehow that makes him glad and mournful at the same time.

Her absence leaves holes in the most insignificant ways, routines that Steve always saw as a given until he didn’t know what to do with himself without them. Their future seemed so obvious and as he saw it all fall apart Steve was flailing in uncertainty.

Steve never knows what the emptiness will bring, only knows he can’t get through it alone. Billy might be a dickhead and they snap nasty comments at each other more than anything else, but he sticks around. Steve expects him to leave anytime, decide he’s had his fun and it’s time to move on to better seas, like everyone else in his life. Because Steve is not something to keep; he’s a station people pass through, gives them the push to do better and just stays behind because there is no place for him in those better lives people built for them. But against all odds, Billy stays. He keeps turning up at unsual hours, calls in the middle of the night and takes him to the quarry during the full moon to get high and stargaze.

Steve looks at the moon, limbs heavy and relaxed as they lay on the hood of the Camaro. He lets himself get swallowed up by the gaping void of the universe and allows it to make him feel like everything else is inconsequential in the great scheme of things. It’s like a balm, the thought that all of the twisting things that haunt him really don’t mean a thing a few stars away. The moon makes him think of the sea, how they learned in class that it pulls the tides and Steve feels his heart tug for something so far aways, thinks of Billys ocean eyes. Realizes he’s right there next to him, that he only has to turn his head and can look at them as long as he wants.

But Steve doesn’t have to look at him to confirm he’s there, here with him, that all atoms that form the stars and moons and them put Billy with him, his warmth a comfort in the cold. Steve reaches out and knows the hand he takes, feels familiar callouses, recognizes the way it squeezes him back and in this moment Steve knows nothing could hurt him.

-

The first snow claims Hawkins as its hostage and Steve waves goodbye to his parents three days before Christmas, his father off on some business trip to warmer places and his mother always one step behind. He sees their car disappear around the corner, his breath coming out in tiny clouds as he stands in the door, hand flopping uselessly to his side and Steve feels lost. He takes his time going back inside (there’s no one waiting for him there anyway), walks deliberately slow through the hall and just kind of stops in between the open space between the kitchen and the unused living room, swaying slightly, a sleepless night weighing heavy on him and he feels just as empty and cold as this damned house.

Funny enough, the first person he wants to call isn’t Nancy, isn’t Joyce or even Hopper - it’s Billy and that alone makes Steve shake his head and head upstairs to his bedroom. There is nowhere to go for the day, the beginning of the school holidays leaving him with nothing to do.

Billy turns up on his door step that same night anyway, because Steve told him to. When Steve slips out of Billy’s arms after the first kiss shared to make tea, Billy lifts an eyebrow but says nothing, only watches Steve spoon little heaps of herbs into the tea eggs with shaking hands and takes the kettle full of hot water out of his hands.

“Before you hurt yourself, princess” he says mockingly, but Steve can hear the concern behind it and the gesture is so domestic, so casually done. He drops his gaze down at the hands he doesn’t recognize as his own, watching his vision swim in front of his eyes. He looks up at Billy and without his consent, silent tears start to fall. It takes a few seconds for Billy to notice, pouring the boiling hot water in their mugs, steam wafting softly in the air and Steve thinks of the smoke filling his lungs in the tunnel and thinks of his nanny making them hot chocolote when he couldn’t sleep and his heart beats so loud.

He almost startles when he feels Billys calloused hand on his temple, stroking his hair out of his face, blue eyes so unusually soft, just for him. Billy takes his trembling hands in his, kisses his forehead and pulls him close. Steve is so exhausted, he doesn’t protest, only closes his eyes, burrying his head in the crook of Billys neck, listening to his breathing.

‘Don’t leave me’, he chokes out and tightens the embrace, scared Billy will just turn to thin air if he stops holding onto him.

‘Never, baby. I’m right here’, Billy says without missing a beat and maybe, maybe he might be okay, Steve thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> life is bad but here have 4600 words about tender idiots realizing they don't have to be alone.
> 
> there's probably gonna be one more chapter (two max, if i can't fit everything in one), but i hope to get this done before season 3 drops and steps on all my hopes and dreams


	5. Chapter 5

Billy spends his Christmas participating in the cheap dollhouse facade his family pulls up for the holidays and Steve stays at the Byers, Joyce fussing about him being way too skinny for his height. Steve helps her prepare the turkey, wash, cut and roast the vegetables, peels potatoes to turn into mashed goodness later on. He feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth every time he pretends not to notice how Joyce casually pushes the snacks his way throughout the whole process.

Nancy has been banned from the kitchen on account of both Steve’s and Jonathan’s experience, beause honestly, that girl would set fire to a pot of spaghetti, given the chance. Jonathan can behave himself well enough around hot plates but has been ordered to fix the table and attend to his girlfriend and really, with Joyce, Steve and Will they’ve already got everything covered. (And if Steve is all the more glad for it, that’s for him to work through.) Will switches between cleaning the mushrooms with paper towels and doodling his D&D characters, happy to just listen to his mothers and Steves banter.

They have the radio on, christmas carols jingling through the easy atmosphere. It’s nice, seeing Will this comfortable, carelessly swinging his legs to the tunes. He is by far the most quiet kid in his adoptive group, but Steve doesn’t hold it against him. The opposite really; it’s strange, how sometimes he feels more connected to Will than even to Dustin. He might not have lived through the same trauma than the boy, yet he sees himself in the way he holds his body, always awaiting something to pounce on him when he doesn’t expect it, sees the far away wide eyed stares towards the windows that have him rigid with fear. He sees this but also how he heals, the shy smiles and bold wildness that sweep him along with his friends and for some moments he looks like every other kid. It gives him hope, he thinks. He tries to hold onto that, ignore the whispering in the back of his head that tries to tell him _if a kid like him can do it why can’t you._

Steve closes his eyes, brows drawn together, takes deep breaths like he’s practised, in through his mouth, out through his nose, until he feels he can keep his demons at bay. When he opens his eyes, he lets his surroundings ground him; the smell of food, Joyces voice, the whisk in his hand. People don’t expect him to, but Steve’s actually not a half bad cook. As he goes back to stirring the gravy he can’t shake the image of cooking for Billy. Make it a proper dinner, with wine and candlelight and too sweet dessert shared on the couch. He shakes the picture like sugar sweetness sticking to his hands and he’s unsure; there is so much unspoken between them, their bond so delicate, he’s scared that if he moves too fast it might break entirely. Steve’s fucked up many things in his life but he’s absolutely certain that he would not survive, if something he did caused Billy to turn away from him.

It’s not that he thinks Billy doesn’t return his feelings; but they’re both so vulnerable and have so little left to give the illousion of control. He wouldn’t put it past Billy to just up and run if given the feeling that he’s backed into a corner. Hell, Steve’s not even sure _he_ wouldn’t bolt if Billy made such a gesture himself.

Still the image won’t leave his head, so when they’re all done feasting at the end of the day, Steve timidly asks Joyce for a second helping to take home, alongside the one she already put in his hands. She smiles and puts some of the crème brûlée in a container for good measure too, kisses him on the cheek and says to wish the lucky one happy holidays from her.

Steve really wants Billy to meet Joyce one day. She’s not his mother but she might as well be, with how much she’s taken care of him these last months, despite her own tragedies. Steve hugs her tightly goodbye and says his thanks into her hair.

He knows driving up to Billys house is dangerous, knows the consequences of being caught from the times Billy hinted at how his father would react to his sexuality; how he was certain that he wouldn’t survive it if he ever caught him with another boy. But the dessert sits still warm in his lap and Steve really wants to see Billy. Wants to kiss him under the stars if they can’t kiss under a mistletoe and he’s really in over his head.

He parks his car a few streets away from Billys house and asks himself what became of ‘this means nothing’, what became of ‘i don’t care about you’. They didn’t feel like lies when he said them, more like something to put up to slow down the rapidly closing distance between them. And how could he have known. How could he have known it would be like this? Truth be told, he admits to himself, walking along the street lanterns, he didn’t really think about anything concerning the two of them in terms of a future. Billy wasn’t a plan, wasn’t an expectation; everything between them was a feeling, every touch too full to be diluted by thoughts. He could have anticipated the heat, the passion, the marks on his hips and the scratches on Billys back; what he didn’t bargain for was that Billy Hargrove had the most tender hands. That there would be times they would be soft with each other, light touches and lazy kisses without any intend behind them. That they would hold onto each other the way they had done the past weeks.

It’s probably a little unhealthy, he thinks, how they have come to depend on each other, a craving for closeness gnawing at his heart, a constant need to touch sun kissed skin. It’s a bit scary, too, the way his feelings have gotten so beyond his control. Hell, it’s the middle of the night and he’s about to bring his lover, boyfriend, fuckbuddy christmas dessert. Before he can lose courage he jogs the last few meters around the house, up to Billys window. It’s dark inside and he can’t really see anything, just hopes Billy’s already in and knocks on the glass, careful to not be too loud. It takes a second knock before Billy’s scrunched up face appears before him, blond curls tousled around his head.

‘What the fuck, Harrington’, he whispers after opening the window, rubbing his eyes. He’s cute like that, all grumpy and exasperated. Steve can’t help the grin that spreads over his face.

‘I brought dessert’, he says, holding up the packed up boxes as proof.

Billys eyes squint a little and leans forward, theatrically pursing his lips. ‘What kind of dessert?’

‘Gotta find out yourself,’ Steve winks but pulls out one of the containers, opens it and Billy melts at the scent of warm vanilla and caramel.

‘Fuck okay, wait a sec’, he turns around, wrestles around a bunch of clothes on the ground and pulls out a hoody before shooing Steve away from the window so he can climb through. They make their way back to Steves BMW, Billy bitching all the way about how fucking cold this hicktown is and Steve can just shrug in amusement. They eat their dessert in the car, seats all the way down so they can comfortably lay next to each other.

‘This is so fucking good’, Billy groans around the spoon and Steve can’t stop grinning, feels his heart flutter in his throat as he says ‘Thanks.’

‘Who’s this even from?’ Billy asks, having almost inhaled all of the little bowl in a few minutes.

‘Joyce - Will’s mom - she let me take some of the stuff I helped her make this evening. She’s great’, he adds sheepishly, looking at his own bowl while Billy stares at him. ‘You made this?’ Steve nods, terribly interested in the leather of the seats. He looks up when Billy runs his thumb over his bottom lip, swiping some of the caramelized sugar up and bringing it to his own mouth, keeping Steve eyes bound to his. ‘Most delicious thing I’ve ever had. Next to you of course,’ Billy grins, his obscene tongue licking his finger, eyes sparkling with mischief. Steve rolls his eyes good naturedly, says ‘whatever’ and goes back to eating his own dessert.

-

‘Does your father hit you?’

It’s a Thursday night; the sky is starless and drawn with clouds as they sit by the pool with two cans of beer and Billy stills, because they don’t do this. They don’t talk so frankly about things like that, dance back and forth on vague truths and casual bickering. But the way Steve looks at him, all serious and open, there is nothing left for Billy to do but answer honestly, his mouth feeling like it has trouble forming around the word.

‘Yes.’

Steve nods, looks away from him and across the pool, over the trees. ‘He’s a piece of shit.’

Billy huffs something exasperated. ‘Yeah, tell me about it.’ Steve is looking at him again, brows drawn together and Billy has trouble breathing for a moment at the sight of the heavy emotions behind his expression, the knowledge that Steve feels so strongly about harm being done to him. ‘When you came by that one night I wanted to kill him.’ Billy’s stomach sommersaults as Steve says those words while reaching out to tuck one of his stray blond curls behind his ear, palm lingering on his cheeck for a second. The tenderness of his hand in such contrast to the disgust in his voice.

Once, when Billy was fifteen, Neil smashed his hand between the door and the frame. Billy nursed it for weeks, trying to bite though the painful throbbing of the damaged bone; his pinky still looks all wrong to this day, never having quite healed. He tells this Steve while pointedly avoiding eye contact, mustering his hand instead and Steve looks at him with big eyes, so sad, always sad. Like his heart was broken instead of Billy’s fingers. Anger rises up in him before he knows it and he snaps ‘Don’t look at me like that. Didn’t tell you to get your fucking pity.’

The concept of someone caring for him without expecting anything in return feels foreign to Billy, almost foolish. People always want something, want him to be someone or do something; in return he gets power, gets fun, gets the absence of violence. It doesn’t work like that with Steve; Steve who just looks at him and expects nothing; he gives and gives and it makes him feel helpless, open under his gaze. Steve doesn’t back away from the turn of his tone, doesn’t adapt it and shoot back with some nasty comment of his own, keeps reacting in ways that throw him out of his rhythm. It feels like a misstep in a dance that should come as naturally as breathing. But while Steves eyebrows are drawn together in confusion, his eyes do not lose their kindness and Billys insides squirm with embarrassment under their intend look.

‘I don’t pity you, it’s just. You don’t deserve that shit’ Steve says and he sounds insecure like that. Like he knows what he means to say but doesn’t have the right words for it. He has his arms around his knees, like so very often when they sit out here, takes another sip of his beer and contemplates his next words. A shadow starts to darken his face, his soft features taking on something harsh and it doesn’t suit him and Billy hates it. Steve is kind, is young in ways Billy hasn’t been in years. He hates whatever happened to him, hates the things that carve shadows under his eyes and have him jerking up at night. Steve’s eyes meet his and his darkness has form now, shows itself in hard eyes and Billy swallows. Just because things shouldn’t be doesn’t mean they don’t happen all the time. ‘I don’t know what your dads damage is but letting it out on his son? That’s kinda pathetic in its own way, isn’t it?’

Billys laugh is short and harsh. ‘Maybe so. Done enough to deserve it anyway, don’t you think? Oh, don’t give me that look, you know it’s true.’ Billy will never understand why Steve is upset when he talks self depricatingly about himself; he beat him half to death, he should know better. And yet Steve fully turns to him now, beer forgotten by his side. ‘Fuck that, it doesn’t make what he’s doing to you any more right!’

Curse Steve and his doe eyes, how they hold his stare and make him dredge up all the shit he buried inside. It’s terrifying, really, how little time it took him to worm his way through his walls, how he always seems to hit him right in the places he tries to hide the most. It hurts, it hurts thinking about all the bullshit in his life, about the noose around his neck that suffocates him slowly, about how he hates his father but still feels it eat him alive that he will never be good enough for him. It almost hurts more to see Steves unwavering eyes and feel his hand on his cheek and his throat is so tight, he doesn’t trust himself to speak. So he does what they’re best at, kisses Steve with everything he can’t say and prays to god he will understand.

-

They’re a comfort to each other, most of the time. Someone to crash and drown with, ebb out afterwards. Sometimes though, Billy feels this itch, feels restless and that’s when the ugliness rears its head again, like an ugly black beast, fangs snapping at the ones closest to him. There’s no one closer to him than Steve and that makes it so much worse.

There’s no way to shut Steve out, too much having been said, too many things laid bare. Billy is vulnerable around him and during his bad phases it rubs him raw. It’s like Steve is prodding at open wounds, somehow always finding the spots that hurt the most. He talks about shit he’s not supposed to, like how he doesn’t deserve his fathers hatred, how Max doesn’t deserve his in turn.

‘What it’s to you?’ Billy spits one night, getting out of their shared bed, fury jolting through his every move as he jerkingly pulls on his jeans. ‘Just because we’re fucking doesn’t mean you get to meddle in my life.’ It’s condecending, it’s cruel and Billy wants it to hurt, wants oh so sensible Steve to get thrown off by him the way he throws off Billy. He regrets it the moment he looks Steve in the face, sees him go still and something behind his eyes shuts off. ‘Fuck, Steve, baby, I didn’t mean it like that’, he tries, runs his hand through his hair and the guilt floods in and he really does ruin everything he touches.

Steve won’t look at him, eyes trained on a far corner of the room and the way his body curls into itself makes Billy hate himself more than Neil ever could. ‘Yes, you did.’ Steve says and it’s bitter, only not Billys raging kind of bitterness; rather one where he has already given up. Billy kneels before the bed where Steve is sitting, takes his hands into his and kisses his knuckles. ‘I’m sorry’, he says and it comes out so much easier than he would have thought, because he means it. Steve eyes meet his and there’s so much hurt behind it, it echoes in Billys chest. ‘Maybe this is a mistake.’ Steve carefully extracts his hands from Billys, getting up from the mattress and pacing to the window. ‘I mean, what the hell are we?’ He turns back around to Billy, one hand shakingly pushing his hair back and huffs out a joyless laugh. ‘Am I just someone to fuck when you’re bored? When you need someone to let off steam?’  
  
’C’mon, you know you’re not’ Billy tries, doing his best to control the level of his voice.  
  
’Do I?’ Steve asks and the desperation in his voice is enough to make Billy want to wince. ‘How the hell am I supposed to know that, Billy? Because I need you and it kills me when you’re not near me and we never talk about this shit and I keep asking myself if I mean anything near the same to you as you do to me.’ Steve’s back is pressed against the window glass now and he’s talking himself into a frenzy and Billy barely has the capacity to even fully internalize the meaning of his words, but he know this: as long as Steve wants him by his side there’s no place he’d rather be. Steve looks like he can’t decide wether he wants Billy to stop or continue when he walks towards him but when he puts his arms around him he claws at his shirt like a drowning man. Billy holds him in return, always so afraid of Steve dissapearing like smoke. The certainty that he’d do anything to keep Steve by his side settles in his bones, heavy and sure.

‘You’re everything to me’ he says and it’s as close to an I love You as he’s come since his mother left and when Steve pulls out of the embrace just a bit, a split second Billy thinks he’s ruined it before Steve goes in for a kiss that feels like a fever and they can’t get close enough, even skin on skin barely satifying the need. He wants to open up Steves chest and lay inside him, be completly surrounded by him, nothing ever seperating them again.

In the early morning hours, when they lay warm and safe against each other under the covers, Steve starts to talk, slowly, of the last winter and the first horrors it brought with it. Billy listens to him stuttering through tales of sharp teeth and survivial instincts and coming so close to death he sees himself dying in his sleep. He listens and to Steves wonder, he believes.

-

It takes its time but Steve finds a new rhythm. It’s uncoordinated and at times he still feels so out of place it’s like his chest is going to implode, but slowly, he gets his footing back. It’s hard, because everything is kept by the seams just so, always threatening to fall apart. He feels bad about it but as he spends less and less time with Nancy and Jonathan, as Billy carves his shape into his life, he feels lighter for it. He loves them both oh so much still, always will. But there is a place and there is a time for everything and every time Steve sees them laugh this private, intimate thing there are shards in his heart, hurting with every beating.

He spends time in Joyce’s kitchen more often than he’d ever expected, helps her prepare snacks for the kids, dinner if he has the time and she’s so kind; frayed in her own kind of way but solid where it counts. Steve is always in awe of her, this unwavering love she holds for her family, how she will never back down should one of them be in danger. It’s another thing entirely if oneself is the danger, of course.

‘Steve honey, you look pale’, she says, and it never comes across as fussing when she does this and as she touches his forehead to feel his temperatur, Steve closes his eyes against the touch, lets the feeling of being cared for wash over him. It makes something in his throat squeeze tight and he swallows hard against the swell of emotions rising in his chest.

‘Do you still have trouble sleeping?’ she asks and he’s not embarrassed for it as he nods. ‘I worry, you know, you all alone in that big house.’

‘I’m not alone anymore. Mostly’ Steve says, sheepishly continuing to do the dishes to avoid Joyces raised eyebrows. ‘And who’s the lucky girl? ’ She ask, like conspiracy, bumping her hip against his as she takes a plate out of his hand. He stares at the sink for a moment, holds onto the edge of it before taking another plate to clean. ‘His name is Billy’ He feels Joyces movements stop and keeps talking before he loses all his courage. ‘He’s an asshole, really. But good too, and kind, even if he doesn’t see it. I like him.’ He gets quieter during the end, holding out the wet plate for her. He doesn’t dare look up when a few seconds pass without anything happening, before Joyce takes the plate out of his hand, puts it onto the counter and hugs him tightly before saying. ‘I’m so glad you found someone who is good for you’ She strokes the hair out of his eyes, smiles up at him. ‘You deserve to be happy, Steve.’

If Steve cries just a little bit right there in the Byers kitchen, that’s their business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is it. this fic has been such a therapeutic thing for me these past months, it's weird having it finished, but it feels right leaving it here.  
> thank you, to all the people who left comments, you all made me so much more happy than you can imagine! i never would have thought that this fic would get any feedback at all, getting your wonderful thoughts on it was a huge motivation <3  
> if any of yall wanna hit me up on my tumblr and talk abou these zero braincells idiots, you can find me at @skelettoine


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